


Recovery

by cranperryjuice



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranperryjuice/pseuds/cranperryjuice
Summary: Geralt gets hurt and spends some time recovering. The Scoia'tael move in. Roche grinds his teeth a lot.





	Recovery

The archgriffin towered over him and the world was going grey around the edges, his own pulse pounding in his ears as his heart pumped toxic blood through his body. He stabbed the thing in its side, blood spurting out over its iridescent beetle-wing feathers, and managed to roll away and wrench a vial of Swallow from his belt.

That got him going long enough to slash the archgriffin's throat. They both collapsed side by side in the grass, Geralt's stomach roiling with nausea, and as the effects of the Swallow faded he realized with a bark of humorless laughter that he was going to die in a field with nary a scratch on him, killed by his own damn potions.

At least they'd probably assume the archgriffin had gotten the better of him, he thought, then everything went black.

***

"Gwynbleidd!"

Geralt gasped for air. Somebody had slapped his face so hard his ears rang from it. Everything hurt. He opened his eyes and saw blurry faces around him.

"Geralt! What potion do you need?"

Hands were grabbing at him, pulling him half up, shaking his shoulders. "White Honey," he managed, and his head lolled back, the world fading again and taking the pain with it.

Another slap snapped his head to one side and clacked his teeth together. "Which one? Tell me!"

He couldn't manage to open his eyes again. He reached out, blind, and someone guided his hand over to vials that lay somewhere in the grass. He found the right one and closed his shaking fist around it. "White Honey," he repeated around the bright metal taste of blood in his mouth, and then the blissful darkness took him again.

***

The smell of damp rock was all around him and he knew he was in a cave. Someone was singing next to him, tuneless and nasal, the words floating over him without really sinking in.

"Shut him up already," somebody growled.

There were more angry voices. Geralt couldn't be bothered to focus on them. He fought to open his eyes, instead, and saw the flickering light of a fire dancing on the cave wall, the shadows of its inhabitants stretched into grotesque figures that reached all the way to the ceiling. Looking up at it made him dizzy.

"Hey, _all_ of you shut up! He's awake!"

A shock of blond hair and too much skin came into view. _Ves_ , he thought, then passed out again.

***

"Go to Dol Blathanna, then. Francesca might give you shelter if you call off your units."

"I'll die on my own terms, Roche. Not of old age, surrounded by those content to hide under the shadow of Nilfgaard and watch impotently as their own race goes extinct."

Geralt clenched his teeth as a wave of nausea rolled over him. He felt cold. He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and turned toward the crackling fire.

"Geralt?" A hand touched his forehead briefly. "He's still burning up. And those marks on his skin..."

"I've seen them before. It's his potions. Maybe he brewed one incorrectly."

"Mm. That doesn't sound like him." Roche sighed. "At least we agree on Nilfgaard."

"Do we? I hear you've struck a deal with the Emperor."

"I did what I had to do for my people. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

Geralt focused on the two voices above him, or at least tried to. He recognized Iorveth's, now, but couldn't make sense of his presence in Velen. The low sound of their conversation lulled him back to sleep before he learned anything more.

***

He woke with a start and bolted upright, then groaned at the burning pain in his muscles. There was something in his mouth, tucked between his teeth and his cheek — he spat it out onto the stone floor and smelled celandine.

"They're celandine leaves," someone said needlessly from across the fire. A Scoia'tael woman, small, with crudely-done tattoos on her face. "Don't spit them out."

She came over and shoved more into his mouth. Geralt took a few breaths, trying to will away the nausea, and managed to chew them a few times before pushing them to a corner of his mouth. He wasn't convinced they'd help, but they sure as hell wouldn't hurt.

"Got anything stronger?" he asked, hoping for poppy. His voice sounded rough to his own ears. Even fisstech was starting to seem like a decent option.

"Tea. It's brewing."

He lay down again, sweat prickling his skin from the effort and the renewed pain. The dancing fire made him dizzy. He turned his head away and saw Iorveth lying next to him, asleep. He looked a little better than Geralt felt.

Some time later, the woman offered him a steaming mug and helped him up so he could drink it. He made it three sips into the bitter, honey-sweetened brew before he retched.

"You've got to keep something down, witcher. It's been three days."

He managed half a mug of lukewarm water and lay back again, exhausted.

***

There were fingers in his hair and that infernal singing again. He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at Iorveth. His head was on his lap. He reached up to rub at his face, and Iorveth's hand stilled. "Geralt? How do you feel?"

"Don't know." His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He looked at the back of his hands and saw his veins still standing out against his skin in purplish streaks. His head was a little clearer, though, and he felt reasonably sure that he wasn't going to die. "Thirsty."

Iorveth grinned upon hearing that, a true grin that showed the gap where one of his teeth had been broken. The expression fit oddly on his usually serious face. It was gone in a second, though. He helped Geralt sit up and handed him a mug.

The tea wasn't any better after having had some time to cool down and go stale. He chugged it down and clenched his teeth until his stomach stopped protesting. He wasn't sure what was in it, but judging by the smell, it involved henbane and more celandine. Better than nothing, at least until his body could handle a dose of Swallow.

Once his stomach settled, his bladder took over the protesting. He pulled himself to his feet, swaying, and held one hand out to stop Iorveth from getting up. "I'm fine. Just gotta piss."

He recognized the cave as soon as he turned around. Roche's hideout. He'd been put in a small, isolated side room, but he could hear the Temerian guerrilla just a few meters away — bowls and mugs clinking together, lively conversation and bad lute-playing.

He kept one hand on the wall and made his way toward the exit. People were calling out to him, greetings and offers for help. He waved them away, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. His legs were trembling as if he were a newborn foal. _Ridiculous_ , he thought even as he stopped to catch his breath.

"Come here," Roche said, throwing one arm around his waist. Geralt leant against him and let himself be led out into the cool evening air. "What the hell did you do to yourself? Archgriffins don't spit venom, do they?"

"No. Just acid." He stopped for a few seconds. The remains of the archgriffin were out there, just a pile of clean bones and feathers now, and a group of Scoia'tael sat around a fire. One of them had set up a loom, of all things, and was bent over something dark that shone green and blue in the moonlight.

"Go on, then. I'll get Iorveth if you need someone to hold your cock for you."

Geralt blinked, then stumbled off wordlessly toward the nearest tree. He rolled that remark around in his head while he relieved himself, but it _still_ made no sense by the time Roche escorted him back inside.

There were Scoia'tael in the cave too, watching from the corners for the most part, but one of them was fingering a lute clumsily next to a Northerner who was shaking his head in grinning disapproval, and another stood over a cauldron that smelled like meat and spices.

"Didn't know the son of a whore was your lover," Roche grumbled close to his ear. "You could've said something."

Geralt sat down heavily on his cot, grey spots dancing in front of his eyes. Iorveth steadied him with one hand on his shoulder, and all Geralt could manage was, "What the hell are you both doing here?"

"Your elf dragged you here and begged for a truce, so we're playing nice. While you're recovering, anyway."

Iorveth hissed something rude in the Elder Speech and Roche turned on his heel and walked off, muttering.

One of Iorveth's men brought him food a few minutes later: a thin, unappetizing gruel and a mug of strong mint tea. The latter helped him keep down the former, and his head felt a little clearer by the time he sat back against the cave wall, sighing.

"You were dead, you know," Iorveth said, curled up with his knees to his chest and something strange in his eye. "Your heart wasn't beating when we found you."

"Mm. Slowed down, maybe. Didn't stop beating."

Iorveth shook his head.

***

The next morning, he managed a few bites of bread and honey. Iorveth slept next to him, dark circles under his eye.

He heard footsteps and looked up to see Ves approach, a pouch dangling from one hand. She tossed it his way when she got close enough, and it clinked as it hit the ground, heavy with coins. "We found the archgriffin contract in your saddlebag, so I rode to Oxenfurt and picked up the money. And more gruel. And some herbs the squirrels were asking for."

"Where's Roach?" he asked.

"He's spending the night in Oxenfurt. Meeting with— oh. The horse?" He nodded. "She's fine. The squirrels brought her back."

"Thanks."

"Thank Iorveth," she replied, shrugging.

Geralt wandered out into the main part of the cave later on, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, feeling three hundred years old. The Scoia'tael brewed him more tea that dulled the aches in his bones, and someone produced a set of Gwent cards.

Roche's men booed his Nilfgaard deck and cheered at every round he lost. And lose he did. By the fifth wipe-out, his head hurt too much to continue playing. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky, streaming in through the opening of the cave, but he walked back to his cot, lay down next to Iorveth, and slept.

***

"Evn'ga... ev... damnation!" Roche exclaimed from the next room. Geralt opened his eyes.

"Evn'gesaen. You do realize they'll use the Common Speech in your presence."

"I'll have to learn it sooner or later. And I will not have them think of Temerians as Northern barbarians who can't be bothered to greet them in their own language."

Roche and Iorveth conversing with any sort of civility was still a novelty to him, no matter how often he'd heard it between bouts of fitful sleep over the past few days. He sat up carefully and reached for the waterskin Iorveth had been keeping within his reach, sipping from it as he listened.

"You shouldn't need more than _glòir aen Ker'zaer_ , then. I assure you they'll be delighted."

" _A d'yaebl aép arse,_ " Roche retorted. "Bloody squirrel."

" _Duivel aép aars_ in their dialect, actually. But I'm touched you remembered the greetings of my people."

Geralt shook his head — he could've sworn Iorveth had just made a joke — and got to his feet, steadying himself against the cave wall. It didn't take long for the dizziness to subside, and he took a few steps over to the next room, where Roche was seated, bent over scrolls bearing both Nilfgaardian and Common scripts alongside important-looking wax seals. Iorveth was leaning against the edge of Roche's desk and seemed to have launched into a lecture.

"— a mere corruption of our language, with none of the..." He trailed off when he saw him, his expression softening somewhat. "How do you feel?"

Roche looked up. "Hungry, I hope. You'll waste away at this rate."

Geralt thought about it and was almost surprised to feel his stomach growl. It'd been a while. "Yeah. Could eat something."

"Sit," Iorveth ordered, pointing to a stool by the desk. Geralt sat.

Iorveth left the cave briefly and returned with a large piece of waybread. He handed it to Geralt, then looked at him until he took a bite. It was dense and lightly spiced but went down easily; his body showed no sign of rejecting it. "This is good," he said around his second bite, and Iorveth gave him a small smile.

Roche's eyes were back on his scrolls. "Mm. Never had a chance to try the stuff."

"And I doubt you ever will. What else do you want to know?"

***

He was sick of sleeping. He was regaining his appetite, at least, and the marks on his skin were slowly fading. He spent more of his time in the main room when he was awake, eating bowlfuls of gruel, light soup and pieces of waybread as he watched the Temerian men and Scoia'tael go about their business.

There were a lot of people coming and going, considering that the hideout was supposed to be a secret. Iorveth would send his elves in pairs to neighboring villages and to Oxenfurt, and they would bring back supplies and reports on what they'd seen. A few messengers on Roche's side were being kept busy with letters to and from Nilfgaard, and important-looking men wearing the Golden Sun would occasionally come and ask for Roche, causing the elves to slip away and melt into the forest like foglets.

But the two factions were warming up to each other, he noticed, especially once the sun set and the spirits started to flow. A few Scoia'tael had taught a young soldier some obscenities in the Elder Speech; he clearly had no idea what he was saying, but his attempts at repeating the words never failed to make them laugh.

The herbs brought back by Ves had been put to good use, ground together and turned into poultices for a few wounded Temerians. That had helped lower the tension, too. On the eighth night, Geralt spotted an elf woman and Hortensio kissing in a dark corner. Roche saw them and scowled into his ale, but said nothing.

The only incident, so to speak, happened that same night, when the ale loosened a Temerian's tongue enough for him to ask about Iorveth's days in the Vrihedd brigade. "What was it like fighting for Nilfgaard, then?"

Iorveth started talking, and Geralt dozed off with his head on his shoulder and his feet close to the fire. When he came to again, blinking, he could hear some angry mutters about the Battle of Brenna, and he had the distinct feeling Iorveth hadn't been complimentary about the Northern forces.

"Iorveth likes to think himself invincible," Roche called out, "yet he forgets I bested him in single combat."

And once _that_ story had been told, it was the Scoia'tael who were muttering. Geralt straightened up a little, sensing something volatile in the air. Ves had been watching from the sidelines; she didn't seem impressed by either of them.

"Leave those two to their pissing contest," she said, eyes sharp despite the tankard in her hand. "Geralt here could give them both a beating without breaking a sweat."

There were murmurs of assent, mostly from those who'd seen him fight before. Geralt wanted to protest — he wasn't going to give anyone much of a beating in his current state — but understood what she was doing and stayed silent.

"If he's that good, how'd the archgriffin get him?" a Scoia'tael asked, and then Geralt had many pairs of curious eyes on him.

"He's the only reason you're not dangling from the end of a rope in Flotsam," Iorveth said, switching to the Elder Speech. "Watch your tongue or I'll cut it off."

"'S fine. I'll tell them. Not much of a story, though." He took a sip of tea while he gathered his thoughts, trying to remember how the fight had gone before everything had gone to hell. "It was an old bastard, clever like a raven. Let me get in a few hits and then flew off, led me straight into a pack of drowners. Wouldn't have been too bad, except he woke up a bunch of nekkers from their nest and led them to me, too. Used up all of my bombs, lost track of how many potions I'd taken."

The same Scoia'tael glanced at Iorveth before asking, carefully, "How'd you beat it in the end?"

"Yeah, and what's it matter how many potions you take?"

Geralt sighed and drank more tea. He had a feeling he'd be talking for a while.

***

He woke up to the pleasant and now familiar feeling of fingers in his hair, rubbing at his scalp. Iorveth, sitting next to him as usual. He opened his eyes and the fingers went still.

"Why'd you stop?" he asked through a yawn, then lifted himself up slightly and flopped back down with his head in Iorveth's lap. Iorveth frowned down at him but tangled his fingers back into his hair.

Geralt was dozing again by the time Iorveth started to sing; it took a minute or two for the words to register. It was a song about Lara Dorren, he realized, and her love for Cregennan of Lod. The dh'oine who'd gained the approval of elves. He opened his eyes. The song died in Iorveth's throat and he looked away.

"Could've just said it," Geralt said.

Iorveth shrugged. His fingers betrayed him, twisting a lock of his hair in an elaborate, nervous pattern. "They say witchers can't feel."

"Witchers can't feel _fear_."

Iorveth's heart was beating too fast. Geralt reached up and intertwined their fingers together before resting both their hands comfortably on his stomach. "Lemme hear the rest of that song."

***

Geralt soon discovered one downside to sleeping so many days away: he found himself awake at odd hours almost every night, with very little to keep him occupied once he'd meticulously cleaned the archgriffin blood from his weapons and armor. He needed to regain his strength, and sitting around eating gruel wasn't going to do it. He started venturing out for nighttime walks or rides around the hideout as soon as he could manage it. The Scoia'tael had been taking good care of Roach, but she seemed happy to see him.

The witcher mutations had more than a few advantages, and within a few nights he'd progressed to long jogs, and to trips down to Oxenfurt to buy Roach apples or carrots. It was getting hard to justify staying in the cave, but whenever he thought of leaving, he'd see the Temerians and Scoia'tael teach each other recipes, or go hunting together, or even argue politics without devolving into fistfights, and he'd decide on an additional day or two.

He entered the cave with a pleasant sort of soreness in his limbs late one night, after jogging up and down the hill and doing some simple exercises. Roche's men and the Scoia'tael were drinking together, and he accepted a few sips of cheap wine from a skin and stood making small talk for some time before walking over to his cot.

Iorveth was already lying there. Geralt kicked off his boots and curled up against his back, nose pressed against the nape of his neck just under his headscarf, one arm wrapped around him. He didn't think Iorveth would mind; he'd certainly made his feelings clear enough.

The wine sang pleasantly along his veins, distracting him, and it took him several minutes to realize Iorveth was awake. Then one more to recognize the odd tension in his body as arousal.

His heart was pounding against the palm of Geralt's hand, and Geralt could feel the heat rising from his skin. He could _smell_ it on him, now, and something like anticipation coiled low in his belly. He pressed closer, mouthed at Iorveth's neck, and Iorveth flinched away and sat up as if he'd been burned. His hands groped around the cave floor and sent Geralt's empty tea mug clattering away before settling on a worn leather bag.

Geralt only understood when Iorveth pressed a vial of something that smelled like cloves into his hand. Blade oil. He uncorked the vial with his thumb and undid his belt and trousers one-handed. Iorveth was breathing hard, and his hands were unsteady when he pulled Geralt to him, skin to skin, his clothes already yanked out of the way.

Geralt pulled back just long enough to spread the oil over himself, then pushed slickly into him, his face pressed into his shoulder blade to muffle the groan that escaped him. Iorveth gasped and writhed under him, fucking himself onto Geralt's cock, and just around the corner the men and elves were still at it, pounding their feet to the rhythm of a bawdy drinking song.

He pushed Iorveth's shoulders down and thrust into him with quick, shallow strokes, his lungs already burning from the exertion. He wasn't going to last long, but then neither did Iorveth; he shook under him, whispering his name through gritted teeth, and Geralt could feel his body clenching around his cock. He managed a few more thrusts before he came undone.

The cave trickled back into view eventually, the sounds of laughter and conversation reaching his ears again, and he pulled out of Iorveth before collapsing next to him, trying to catch his breath. Iorveth's back was heaving at the edge of his vision. His trembling fingertips found Geralt's face and he kissed him, clumsy and wet, panting into his mouth.

Geralt was vaguely conscious of a blanket being thrown over him, over them both, before he fell into sleep.

***

"The lookouts say you've been going out a lot."

Geralt gave a short nod over his shoulder to acknowledge Ves but kept brushing dust from Roach's coat. He'd heard her coming — her low-heeled boots made the sound of her footsteps easy to recognize.

"Want to go for a ride? The fresh air will do you some good."

He nodded again and dropped the brush to the ground. "Bring your sword. Need exercise more than fresh air."

He saddled Roach while Ves did the same to her gelding. They rode off together under the twinkling stars, Geralt not caring much where they ended up. He followed her through the woods and cut through fields until they reached the bank of the Pontar.

He was a little sore from the ride, but retrieved his steel sword and spent a good half-hour blocking flurries of attacks from Ves. She lacked finesse and opened herself up to counter-attacks far too often. Even so, she'd be impressive on a battlefield. Geralt's arms burned from blocking her blows by the time he called for a break.

"They're not all bad, the squirrels" she said while he caught his breath leaning against a large rock. "Even Iorveth. I thought it was some kind of scheme when they brought you here, and then I saw the look on his face. You've sure softened up the mad bastard."

"Funny what love can do to people," he acknowledged. "Roche's looked like he's been chewing on lemons for about a week."

She grinned. "Does that surprise you? There's not a romantic bone in his body. Unless he's talking about Temeria."

"Jealous?"

"Please. I know a lost cause when I see one. No woman of flesh and blood could ever compare to her." She poked at him with the tip of her blade. "Come on, witcher, pick up your sword. If I were a drowner, you'd be dead twice over."

"If you were a drowner, you wouldn't be fighting like a crazed rock troll." He did pick up his sword, though, and wiped the sweat from his brow before straightening up. "Watch my feet this time."

***

On the thirteenth day of what was rapidly becoming an impromptu vacation, Caolán the weaver presented him with a blanket made from the dull grey down of the archgriffin, adorned on one side with a layer of dark, iridescent feathers from its mane.

"Beautiful work. Thank you." It was already warm near the big campfire at the center of the hideout, but he draped the blanket over his and Iorveth's legs anyway. He hadn't had a chance to take a trophy from the corpse; at least now he'd have a memento of the damned beast who'd nearly bested him.

"Sucking up to Iorveth's favorite, huh?" a soldier called out, sending a wave of laughter rippling through the cave.

"It was Geralt's kill," Caolán retorted. "Go slay an archgriffin with that shoddy bow of yours, Bog, and I'll weave you a blanket too."

More snickers rose around them. Roche crouched next to Geralt and fingered the edge of the blanket. "Impressive," he granted somewhat grudgingly. Then, looking over the even mix of Scoia'tael and Temerians huddled around the fire, most of them already focused back on their own conversations, "I still can't believe they're getting along."

Geralt shrugged. "I can."

"You would," Roche replied, looking at him sourly. "You've always been on their side."

"Whose side are you on, Roche? The Eternal Fire's? Leave them alone. They're all tired of war."

Some of the fight seemed to go out of him at that, and he watched the mixed groups for a few more seconds before shaking his head. "As am I. I apologize," he said, then stood and walked away.

***

_Laighe y thaesse,_ Iorveth had murmured into his ear, down blanket thrown over his shoulders to hide their bodies from view, and now he was bouncing in Geralt's lap and Geralt couldn't even remember ever feeling sick. The archgriffin feathers caught the firelight, glimmering like jewels, and Iorveth shone golden with sweat as his thighs worked, his head thrown back and his brow furrowed. The sheer ecstasy coursing through Geralt's body made his eyelids heavy and turned his bones to molten lead, and yet he couldn't look away.

Iorveth's knees squeezed Geralt's sides and he ground himself down onto his cock as he came, hunching over, biting his own knuckle in an effort to stay silent. Geralt grabbed onto his thighs, snapped his hips up a few times and wrenched a desperate moan from him.

"Fuck's sake," Roche growled from the next room, and Geralt laughed even as pleasure crashed blindingly over him.

Iorveth stood, later, and wrapped the blanket around himself as he padded away. Geralt turned over and pillowed his head on his crossed arms.

"You're overstaying your welcome, Iorveth. He's recovered, _clearly_."

He'd said _Iorveth_ , Geralt noticed, rather than _whoreson_ or _pointy-eared bastard_ or even _elf_.

"Has he? He seemed rather drained a moment ago."

Roche snorted. "Crazy son of a whore," he muttered, sounding more like his usual self. Geralt's ears had just barely picked up the hint of a smile in his voice, though.

Iorveth joined him again, and soft down tickled the back of Geralt's legs as he straddled him. "Water?" he offered, dropping a waterskin in front of him.

Geralt shook his head. Iorveth rubbed at the nape of his neck, then slid his hands down, his fingertips trailing over the old scars and burns that covered his back. "Your skin has been clear for a few days," he remarked, then started kneading.

"Mmhm."

"Where will your Path take you next, vatt'ghern?"

Geralt stared into the flames as if he'd find an answer there. He had no intention of closing his eyes, but found himself jerking awake some time later, when Iorveth dug his knuckles into a knot of tension at the small of his back. "Where's your unit headed?" he asked.

"West. Too many nonhumans dying in Novigrad. And in every village along the way." He bent forward — Geralt felt the brush of feathers and the heat from his skin — and dropped a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Come with us."

Geralt remembered Novigrad's pyres and the frightened faces of fleeing mages and nonhumans all too well. He couldn't think of a better way to spend his time. "All right," he replied.

***

Geralt tied the rolled-up down blanket carefully to the back of Roach's saddle and went over his possessions: swords, armor, alchemy equipment, repair kit, money. It wasn't a long list.

The Temerians and Scoia'tael were saying goodbye at the entrance of the cave, most of them a bit rumpled from the send-off Roche's men had decided to give them the previous night. Some were hugging and slapping each other on the back. Hortensio and Eate were trading keepsakes — she'd acquired a dirty blue kerchief tied to her wrist, and he a fox fur brooch at his belt. Iorveth and Roche stood facing each other, Iorveth with his arms crossed and Roche with one hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Nilfgaard has always treated nonhumans fairly," he said a little stiffly. "I will strive to ensure Temeria adheres to the same principles."

Geralt stepped over to them. Iorveth was already bristling. "How noble of you. The ink hasn't even dried on your deal with the Emperor, and already—"

"Means you can hide in Temeria if you make too many enemies elsewhere. Right, Roche?"

Roche shot him an irritated look but nodded all the same. "If ever we meet again, I shall look the other way. Don't give me reason to change my mind."

Several seconds ticked by before Iorveth finally took a deep breath and said, "Thank you."

He looked like the words had cost him a lot, but Roche dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "I owe Geralt a great deal," he added, as if that explained anything, then turned and disappeared into the hideout.

Geralt climbed onto Roach and looked over his shoulder. Iorveth had mounted his white mare, too, but had led her to one of the lookouts who stood at the cave's entrance. He retrieved something from his saddlebag and dropped it at the lookout's feet. "Take this to Roche."

The small object was bound tightly in a folded leaf, but Geralt breathed in and recognized the faint smell of flour and spices emanating from it. He smiled to himself and started down the path.

Iorveth caught up to him and they kept a leisurely pace until the trees opened up and Novigrad's many towers and spires became visible in the distance. It was a beautiful day, the air crisp and cool and the dawn painting the sky in a myriad shades of pink and orange. He stopped Roach to take it in.

Iorveth pulled up next to him, his knee brushing against Geralt's, and slid his fingers into his hair where it hung loose under his ponytail. "Race you to the bridge past Carsten?" he asked, tugging briefly before letting his hand drop back to his reins.

Geralt glanced back at the groggy Scoia'tael and the donkey laden with supplies that Ves had insisted on lending them. They'd catch up. "Sure. But I'm going to win."

"Do call for help if you spy an archgriffin," he said, and Geralt caught a flash of that silly gap-toothed grin before he sent his horse bolting forward.

"Hey," Geralt called out, then shook his head and gave Roach a squeeze. "Come on, Roach."


End file.
